


Deep Blue (Something?) Lyrium

by IrLaimsaAraLath



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drug Addiction, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vaginal Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12764172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrLaimsaAraLath/pseuds/IrLaimsaAraLath
Summary: Came from a prompt from @solverne that Cullen would have a moment of weakness about going back on lyrium, and his love interest would save him.So, this is Cullen and my Trevelyan, Caitlin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a couple more chapters on this one.

_ Screams tore at the air, left it in shreds, echoing off the stone walls long after the voice that bore it had grown silent.  The smell _ , the smell -- _ burning flesh, spilled entrails, blood and smoke.  It choked him, so thick he could taste it.  He could barely keep from retching.  And, at the boundaries of the ephemeral shield that sheltered him, demons drug claws across the magic, sparks hissing, accents to the sibilant whispers of the creatures themselves.  They caressed the barrier with their hands, and with their voices, his ears, his skin, the fraying edges of his mind. Always calling, always beckoning.  So sweet.  His prayers couldn’t drown out the allure of their promises, and he looked up.  Around him, the shield began to disintegrate from the top down, fracturing and falling away like so many pieces of broken glass.  Panic flooded him as he surged to his feet, ready, ready to fight...but as the demon closed in on him, each curve of her body -- breast and hip -- was more seductive than the last, and for a moment, just a moment, he faltered.  His eyes strayed, her hunger was his, and he  _ ached _ for her...wanted to taste her.  Instead, the taste that rose on his tongue was that of his own blood and the ache in his belly was now a tearing as her hand twisted in his guts.  Then, he screamed… _

 

Cullen woke to the sound of his own voice, a violent herald to the day dawning pale on the horizon in shades of pink and violet.  His arm was cradled protectively over his midsection, and he could still  _ feel _ it, the demons fingers clawing.  He was tangled in the mess of his bedding, sheets wet with sweat and wrapped around his legs.  Struggling with them, it was a panic to free himself, to tear himself out of the unfamiliar grip that held him.  And once free, he realized he couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t breathe, and he staggered out of bed, half delirious and terrified.  He didn’t know where he was going, but his feet stumbled toward the ladder to his office.  Before he made half the journey, he toppled to his knees.  The first few spasms were dry heaves, and the last contained the dregs of the whiskey that had been his lullabye the night before.  With one hand braced on the worn wooden floor, he panted, ragged and shaking as he shut his eyes tight and prayed,  _ prayed _ , for strength, for mercy, for deliverance.

 

*

 

“Maker!  Are you expecting the Venatori to just  _ lay down _ and  _ die _ ?” Cullen admonished the soldier at his side, who immediately scuttled out of the way when the Commander snatched his shield from his hand and drew his own sword.  “Your shield is for cover, but you’re not supposed to cower behind the damned thing!” he seethed as he brandished the shield at the soldier across from him, circling the younger man until he found and opening and brought his sword to bear.  The first clatter of metal on metal rang through the courtyard as all of the recruits took a healthy step or two back to make room for the sparring.  

 

_ How many times do I have to tell them?  The enemy is not going to be gentle.    _

 

Cullen inscribed a broad backhand swipe with his sword, catching the recruit off-guard and nearly ripping the sword from his grasp.  

 

_ The enemy is not going to be kind.  _

 

In his frantic backpedaling under Cullen's assault, the soldier lost his footing and nearly fell backward.  He was set off-balance enough that a rounding swish of the Commander’s sword disarmed him.   

 

_ The enemy is not going to have mercy.   _

 

The recruit braced the shield with both hands to fend off the onslaught of blows that drove him back as far as he could go, trapped by the empty weapon rack behind him and the Commander in front of him.  Cullen brought down his sword again and again...

 

_ They have to be prepared.   _

 

It wasn’t until an iron hand clamped down on his wrist, catching it at the apex of a downward swing, arresting his strike in mid-air, that Cullen finally stopped swinging.  He snarled, “Take your damned hand off of me,” as he turned, only to find Bull staring down at him with flint in his eyes and his upper lip curled back.  “I said enough,  _ Commander _ ,” the Qunari uttered with a measured tone, obviously exercising an impressive amount of restraint as he spoke.  It was the sharp edge of Bull’s voice that shook him free of his stupor, and the anger in him snapped back into his core as he turned to look at the recruit he’d been sparring with.  Cullen had driven the man to one knee in the dirt, and he was  _ still _ lingering behind his shield, uncertain whether or not the danger had passed.  The former Templar blanched as his eyes flitted across the faces surrounding him, stung by the amount of fear he saw, pierced by the pity.  As the tension in his sword arm drained out of him, Bull released him, and he abruptly sheathed his sword before throwing down the shield he’d pilfered.  Flushed with exertion and shame, he scrubbed his hand through his hair, offered brief apologies to all, and was gone before Bull could get the soldier back on his feet properly. 

 

*

 

He slammed the tower door behind him so hard that dust lifted into the air, and shafts of golden sunlight sifted through it as they fell to the stone floor beneath his feet.  His hair was mussed and wet with sweat, the moisture freeing it to curl as he drug his gloved hands roughly through it.  The leather tugged and pulled on the strands, and he growled as he snatched the gloves from his hands and threw them to the floor.  Next was his armor, carelessly discarded in a way he would never normally condone, his mantle flung across the rungs of the ladder.  He stalked to the far wall, his steps heavy and with a martial pace, and a quick turn on his heel allowed him to retrace his path to the door.  In his skull, his eyes burned as if fevered, and the sting both distracted and incited his already short temper.  He couldn’t stand the sight of his violently trembling hands and balled both into fists as his thoughts ran wild.  

 

_ What’s wrong with you?  Get a hold on yourself. _

 

He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, though it did nothing to slow the pace of his pounding heart.  It only seemed to make the erratic beat more obvious.  Which, in turn, piqued his anger.

 

_ Get it together, Rutherford. _

 

He brought his clenched fists to his temples, pressing, grinding his knuckles in until his vision swam.  On his final trek across his office, he stood flush against the end of the bookcase and rested his forehead on the wood.  

 

_ If Bull hadn’t stopped you, you might have killed that man. _

 

“No.”  

 

His blood pounded through his head, rushed in his ears, and he could feel the sweat rolling between his shoulder blades and down his spine.  He was no longer certain if the voice he heard was simply his own in his head, or if he was speaking aloud in conversation with himself.

 

_ He was already in the dirt. _

 

“I wouldn’t have killed him.”  

 

Cullen closed his eyes, the colors around him suddenly becoming too bright, too sharp, causing the backs of his eyes to ache.  He tapped his forehead against the bookcase once, twice.

 

_ Are you sure?  And the way he was looking at you?  Maker, he was terrified. _

 

“Be quiet.”  

 

He banged his head against the wood again, harder this time, hard enough to send a shard of pain across his scalp and ripples of black across his vision.

 

_ How are they supposed to trust you when you can’t control yourself?  What kind of commander are you without the trust of your men?   _

 

_ Weak. _

 

“Shut up.”  

 

_ Pathetic. _

 

“Stop.”  

 

_ Useless. _

 

“JUST STOP!”  He roared before slamming both fists against the bookcase with every bit of strength he could summon.  The wood squalled against the stone floor as it slid, books on the shelves toppled, fell over and off, and a small box with a brass latch clattered to the floor as well.  He froze, staring at the diminutive reliquary, eyes possessed with both the anger of accusation and the heat of neglected desire.  It appeared plain enough, that small box:  unassuming wood varnished and set with brass hinges and a latch.  It didn’t look dangerous.  But it was.  Cullen was numb when his arms fell, loose fists thumping against his thighs as he stared at it.

 

_ This pain is unnecessary. _

 

His jaw set as he became acutely aware of the beads of sweat tickling along his scalp.

 

_ The shakes and the irrational anger. _

 

He ground his teeth so tightly together that they squeaked.

 

_ The hallucinations and the nightmares. _

 

Though he heard the shuffle of his boots on the stone floor, he didn’t distinctly remember having taken a step.

 

_ Just one draught.  Just one, and things would be better. _

 

He closed his eyes but for a moment, and when he opened them again, the box was in his hands.  His trembling, sweaty hands.  Under those hands, the delicate, tenuous thread of his resolve frayed and unraveled, and as it did, he was lost to the craving.  With an excess of care, he deposited the reliquary on his desk, and it took him several clumsy attempts to work the absurdly small latch open.  Instead of the vial of lyrium dust that  _ should _ be there, he found a loose coil of parchment.   Retrieving it and uncurling it proved to be quite the task, but when he finally held it open, stretched out flat between two fingers of each hand, he was able to read it.  “I love you.  Come talk to me.  ~ Caitlin.”  A rational mind might have realized this as a loving attempt to help.  Or an effort to provide clear-headed council before an irreversible decision was made.  But, his mind wasn’t his own right now, much less rational.

 

_ She doesn't trust you. _

 

_ She left that note because she  _ expected _ you to fail.  She only placates you, preys on your emotions to take from you what she wants.   _

 

_ You're just a burden to be managed.   Nothing more.   _

 

Cullen crushed the tiny slip of parchment in his hand, grinding it with his fingers as if he could turn it to dust.  The darkness that whorled at the edges of his mind coalesced in the center of his chest, the withdrawal and shame sparking fury in him.  When he glanced away from his desk, his chin dropped and his eyes narrowed, turning the golden amber to a hard bronze as his pupils flared.  Dropping the crunched paper onto his desk with the rest of the useless kit, he turned and strode single-mindedly out of the tower.  He didn’t even bother to close the door behind him.  

 

He made no effort to conceal himself when he stepped from Solas’s rotunda into the main hall, only kept to the edges of the room in order to avoid conversation.  It was easy enough as most had gathered closer to the middle, nearer the warmth of the braziers.  He made eye contact with no one and kept his head down, his fists clenching and unclenching against his thighs as he made his way.  Bent solely to his purpose, he didn’t even spare a look around as he opened the door to the Inquisitor’s chambers and stepped through.

 

*

 

She was cornered.  A small audience of nobles fanned in front of her in a half-moon just outside of Josephine’s office.  She had been trying to gracefully bow out of the conversation for a good half an hour, but her subtle hints were apparently too subtle.  Just as she was beginning to reevaluate her tactics, the door opening immediately across the hall captured her attention.  Cullen stepped out, his features pinched and angry, his hair mussed, sweat glistening on his skin.  He was in his shirt sleeves, with no armor, no mantle, and he was  _ rarely _ seen outside of his office without those things.  

 

Worry pulled her brow lower as she watched him stalk along the edge of the room; normally, his eyes would be up and out, scanning the hall for any hint of a threat.  Instead, they were singularly focused on his path, which led behind her throne and into her quarters.  Perhaps the situation was more dire than Bull had suggested to her.  “Your worship?”  One of the nobles purposefully put himself in her line of sight to catch her attention, and she tried to suppress the sneer that threatened to rise on her lips.  Instead, she transformed it into a graceful smile as she made her apologies, then excused herself in no uncertain terms, leaving no room for subtlety as she strode toward the rear of the hall.

 

*

 

Methodically, he started with the side table nearest the entrance and had worked his way across the room.  Drawers and their contents were scattered across the floor, the bookshelf was mostly swept bare, all of its volumes discarded, and he sat now at her desk, having rifled through stack after stack of paper before starting in on the drawers.  “Is there something I can help you find?” Caitlin’s voice suddenly rang across the room.  He hadn’t heard her come in or walk up the stairs or see her out of his peripheral vision as she neared him, and the sound of her voice raised only the barest acknowledgement from him.  “The lyrium dust vial,” he said abruptly, pulling the entire middle draw free of the desk and shaking the remainder of its contents into the floor between his feet.  Bending, he dusted a hand through the scattering of things, but didn’t find what he was looking for.  

 

For a moment, he rested his elbows on his knees, and the line of his back bowed with his quickened breaths as he roughed his hands through his hair to clasp at the back of his neck.  He felt as if his blood were boiling him from the inside out, both in temperature and temper.  “Where is it, Cait?” he asked from between his arms, his voice scathing, hard with more than a little bitter accusation.  One arm fell to drape from his knee as he turned his head to gaze at her.  His fist stiffly opened and closed.  “I need it.  I-,” he paused, bit down on his words as he shook his head and stood.  “Did something else happen?  I heard about the sparring ring,” she said quietly, and when his eyes turned up to her, she raised one shoulder.  “Bull told me.  He’s concerned about you.   _ I _ am concerned about you.”  

 

He barked out a weak peal of laughter as he stepped wide across the mess he’d left on the floor.  “I don’t need his concern...or yours.  I need lyrium.”  Sweat had soaked through his cotton shirt, making a darker vee visible on his chest as he stalked over to her and tilted his glazed eyes down to her.  There was no masking the quick wash of hurt that passed over her features, but she tucked it away as she reached out to lay a hand on his arm.  “I can help you through this.  You’re stronger than the lyrium.”  With a growl, he swatted her hand away and took a menacing step forward, shoving his body flush against hers.  “Is that really what you want to see?  How strong I am?”   His hand snapped out, clamping down on her upper arm as he leaned to put his face closer to hers.  The muscles around her mouth tightened, pulling her lips into a taut line as she gazed unwaveringly at him.  

 

“I’m not afraid of you, Cullen.  I never have been.  I never will be.”  He chuckled under his breath, his hand growing tighter on her, tight enough that there would be bruises later.  Other than a subtle stiffening, she seemed unphased by his grip or his desperate threats.  “You realize I almost killed a man today...without even blinking.  You realize that, right?” he questioned, the volume of his voice rising as he gripped her other shoulder.  “I beat him into the  _ dirt _ , he was on his knees,” he didn’t bother with the effort to speak in a somewhat even tone, the quickened pace of his breathing clipping his words into short bursts of sound.  As he spoke, he leaned into her, and she was forced to take a step back, then another.  “I might have killed him...I  _ would _ have killed him, if it hadn’t been for Bull,” he gave her a small shake as if trying to rattle some sense into her, “I’d have run him through right there in the courtyard.”  

 

Every moment he spoke was another step back until he shoved her and she was pinned against the edge of the fireplace.  The impact knocked her head back against the stone, and she grunted, but only stared unfailingly into his eyes.  “You wouldn’t have.  You’d have stopped,” she said, her voice as calm and confident as ever it was, and her surety made his anger flare hotter.  His lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl as his hands rose to her shoulders.  “You  _ can’t _ know that, and you’re playing with fire.  Give me the lyrium,” he ordered, the gravel in his voice raking over the words and making a threat of them as his hands rose to her neck.  “I don’t have it, and I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.  You told me you didn’t want this,” she pleaded with him, a reasoned appeal to the man she knew lay beneath the rage.  

 

“The situation,” he began as his hands tightened on her throat, “has changed.”  Defiant still and stubborn, she raised her chin and uttered a few hoarse words, “I’m not...afraid of you.”  The last word was clipped as his thumbs pressed into her windpipe, and she wheezed until that was silenced as well.  Staring at her over the knot of his hands around her neck, he couldn’t understand  _ why _ she didn’t just  _ accept _ that he was a  _ danger _ , a  _ menace _ ,  _ not to be trusted _ .  Not without the lyrium.  Her little note made it obvious she had no faith in him.  Why did she continue this charade?  The tension in his muscles had worsened the shaking of his arms, and he twisted his head to the side to try to unclench the twisted muscles in his neck.  

 

_ Tighter.  Make her understand. _

 

His face was blood red, veins livid against his skin as he leaned down to put his face into hers.  “Are you scared yet?”  In as much as was possible, her head twitched back and forth, and she offered a single word in the bare squeak of a breath, “ _ No. _ ”  

 

_ Tighter. _

 

Pain throbbed sharply in his head, flashing bright against the backs of his eyes, dragging them into narrow slits.  There was a different quality to this pain, different than the headache that had plagued him all day, different than the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat in his head.  It curled threads of weakness through his body, made his breath catch with the pressure that pounded behind his eyes.  He felt like his skull was about to cave in.  The weight of it was almost crippling, and he groaned as his head began to swim.

  
  


“ _ Please _ ,” he begged, but to who or for what, he wasn’t sure.  His fingers had begun to ache with their clench, and though Caitlin had brought her hands to rest on his forearms, she wasn’t fighting.  Her cheeks were burning crimson, lips becoming edged in blue as they fell open soundlessly.  But, her eyes never left his, and there was no anger there, no fear, only love, concern...for him, not for herself.  It tore at him, at his heart, at his mind.  He choked as he stared back at her, into her eyes.  He...wanted to let go.

 

_ Not until she relents. _

 

His eyes dropped from her face to his hands, and he was willing them to let go, to release her, but he couldn’t seem to make the muscles work.  He hadn’t realized it, but he was holding his own breath, and it left him in a rush as he began to pant with the effort to make his body respond.  The tears that had begun to collect in his eyes fell onto his cheeks as he whispered over and over and over again:   _ Please.  Please.  Please. _  Panic, raw and pure, shot through him, and his eyes shot back to hers.  Shakily, she lifted one hand from his arm and reached toward his face.  Her fingertips just brushed the tears that trickled down his cheek as her eyes fluttered, tried to focus, then drifted closed.  As if in response, the mark flared violently against his arm before her hand slipped limply away.  “ _ No _ , no, no _ no _ no…”

 

His breath left him as a tortured cry, and the muscles in his neck stood out as he poured everything he had left into prying his hands from her throat.  Slowly at first, then all at once, his fingers unlocked, and like a rock, she fell.  He caught her in one arm, just barely, and let the weakness in his legs and her added weight pull them to the floor.  In desperation, he gathered her into his lap, and like a ragdoll, her head fell back over his arm.  He scooped his hand beneath her head, deep into her hair as he lifted her.  “Caitlin, no...Cait...Maker  _ help _ me,” he hoarsely begged as his body shook with sobs, each shudder of his breath tearing out in desperation.  He clutched at her face, patting her cheek as he wept over her name.  In his arms, her body lurched and her eyelids fluttered.  

 

“ _ Please _ , please, Cait,” he begged, hand whispering over her face, helpless and unable to do  _ anything _ but watch.  After what seemed like an age, she abruptly hauled in a deep, ragged breath, coughing violently as she clung to his shirt with both hands.  Joy renewed the sobs that had formerly been grief, and his entire body was a trembling mess as he clutched at her.  “Maker’s Grace, Cait...I’m so sorry.  Forgive me,  _ please forgive me _ ,” he stammered over and over the words, incapable of keeping his hands or his lips off of her face.  The thought occurred to him, as she struggled to catch her wheezing breaths, that he no longer deserved to touch her.  Couldn’t be trusted with her.  Was wholly unworthy.  The notion branded him as sure as any fire-red iron would, leaving the truth of it to echo pain through his chest long after the immediate thought had passed.  He felt...abruptly empty.  

 

“You could have stopped me.  Why didn’t you stop me?” he asked, resigned to her condemnation; whatever it was, he deserved it, and it would likely not be enough to deliver the punishment truly owed him.  As her breathing began to even out, she hooked a hand behind his neck and pulled him down so that she could kiss his cheeks and his lips.  He didn’t resist, but he didn’t understand how or why she would...why she wasn’t already summoning the guard to have him removed to the cells.  “Just...proving a point,” she said hoarsely as she leaned up to press her forehead to his.  The incredulity in his voice was apparent as he scoffed, leaning away from her as he brushed the hair from her face with a trembling hand.  “What point could have possibly been worth that?”  She caught the hand in her hair and brought it to her cheek, rested the weight of her head in his palm, and closed her eyes, smiling faintly.  “ _ I _ knew you would stop.  I needed  _ you _ to know it, too.”

 

Completely aghast, he eased his shaking hand from her face and scrubbed at his chin.   _ Why? _  Why was she smiling?  Why would she ever trust him that much?  Why had she not already driven him from her chambers?  Cursed him?  Called the guard to restrain him?   _ Why? _  “You...shouldn't have so much faith in me, not when your life hangs in the balance,” he said, face and eyes falling aside in shame as he gently eased her from his lap.  Confusion was clear on her features as she leaned back from him, and he got to one knee, then stood.  She reached up, clutched at his hand, and he turned pained, sullen eyes to her.  “But, that's when I have the most faith in you, Cullen,” and she squeezed his fingers.  He had never felt so simultaneously numb and lost and in utter agony in all his life as when he looked down at her just then.  She had seen him in the throes of withdrawal before, the shakes, the sweats, the fevers, and the ill tempers.  But never like this.  How could she have known what he would do?  She didn’t.  She played a dangerous game, and it was only by chance that she won.  He couldn’t put her in that kind of danger again.  The only answer was to go.  He would speak with Cassandra in the morning.

 

Mutely, he shook his head at her, stiffly pulled his fingers from hers, and said, “I’m sorry, Inquisitor,” as he turned.  She made a sound, something small and pained, and he could hear her scrabbling to stand as he continued to walk.  He was halfway down the first set of steps before he felt her hand on his shoulder.  “We can do this, Cullen,” she pleaded, her voice harried and pleading.  “You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for.”  It was the touch that stopped him, but it was her words that made him turn.  His expression was forlorn, though his skin was flushed, and tears hadn’t stopped gathering in his eyes since he’d come back to himself with his hands around her throat.  Where he stood on the stairs made her slightly taller on the landing above him, and he tilted his eyes up to her.  “I’m not, Cait.  If I was, I wouldn’t have stopped just now.  I’d have walked right out that door.  I’d-,” his voice broke, but he was too far in his hurt now to stop.  “I’d never have kissed you.  Never wondered at what it would feel like.  Never even allowed myself to entertain the thought of you.”  His jaw stiffened as he forced himself to stare into her violet eyes, to not look away, to not cower.  At his sides, his fists were clenched so far, his short nails had begun to bite into his palm.  “I’d have swallowed my feelings...just to keep you safe,” he confessed, his voice low, almost a whisper.  “But I am not  _ that _ strong, and yet the thought of hurting you destroys me.”

 

Her fingers were trembling when they fell light on his jaw, and he felt both damned and blessed by her touch, both wanting to run from it and dissolve into it.  She came down a step, and her fingers slipped into his hair at the nape of his neck.  He just...couldn’t look at her anymore, and his chin dropped.  When her other arm slipped in over and around his shoulder, he shuddered out a breath, and she tugged him against her until his forehead rested against her clavicle.  In the circle of her arms, with her cheek nestled in his hair, she began to whisper, “I have never known anyone like you, Cullen.  You endure...have endured...so much, and you care so deeply.”  Her hand combed through his hair, and each rake sent shivers down his spine.  “You have done  _ so much good _ ,” and he struggled against those words, tried to pull away, but she held him, fist twisted in his shirt on the back of his shoulder, her hand holding the crown of his head.  “So much good, yet you forgive yourself  _ nothing _ ,” she admonished softly, her voice warm in his hair.  He couldn’t help his tears or his shaking or his arms as they gingerly rose to encircle her waist.  “You deserve  _ so _ much more than you allow yourself,” she said, pressing the words and her lips against the curve of his cheek.

 

The shaky breath he drew pulled her into his lungs, the scent that was distinctly hers, and he buried his face into the hollow between her shoulder and her neck.  Her elbows rested on his shoulders as her hands rose to the back of his head, gently holding, petting, lavishing him with a tenderness he did not deserve.  When she spoke again, her voice was soft, her breath right against his ear.  “I have...never known the kind of love I have for you.  The sight of you stirs warmth in my heart and in my belly.  When you’re within arm’s reach,” she paused, nuzzling against his ear, “all I want is to touch you.”  Unbidden, his voice parted his lips against the skin of her neck, and his arms tightened around her of their own accord.  “I could understand if you...didn’t feel the same.  You’ve seen...done...so much more than I have,” she said, the confidence in her voice faltering slightly.  It lifted his head and pulled his eyes to hers, and he stared up at her for the first time since she’d begun to speak.  A deep blush rode high on her cheeks, and her violet eyes were glistening with tears that had yet to gather.  And still, she smiled at him, cradled his jaw in one hand.  “...but if you do, even in the slightest, please,” she beseeched as she pressed a kiss to his forehead, then another to his cheeks, then the last to his lips, all interspersed with  _ please _ s of their own.  “Please stay, now, tomorrow, for as long as you will...and let me help you through this.  Let me try to be what you deserve.”  

 

He stared at her, eyes roaming over her face, taking her in.  And, he didn’t know what to make of her.  With every word she spoke, he became less numb, lighter, and now his skin hummed with a vibration that made him feel almost weightless.  He would never understand how she did such things.  Or why she would say these things...to him.  But, there was no mistaking the sincerity in her eyes, the desire in her asking, or in the reaction it provoked in him.  More than lust, more than even love, her willingness...her insistence...on taking him as she found him, loving him in spite of it, did something to him.  Wrapped him up, spinned him ‘round, and left him bewildered and seeking sanctuary.  Sanctuary he always found in her arms.  He pulled her body flush against his, holding her easily as he climbed the two steps to the landing, her toes dangling above as he wordlessly lowered his lips to hers.  He knew he shouldn’t, even as he did it, he knew she would be safer if he resisted, but she had pierced the heart of him, and he was left helpless and at her mercy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caitlin drugs Cullen. You know, for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff to get to smut for @solverne.

In that moment, all else fell away.  There was only her hands in his hair as her mouth became pliant beneath his.  What began as a slow kiss, capturing first her top lip then the bottom, became more as he sought to consume the whole of her.  The timid slide of his tongue between her lips drew a small sound from her throat, and he drank it in gladly as would a man parched.   She had a way about her.  Straw could be spun to gold with her touch, if you asked him, but asking  _ her _ , he was what she wanted to touch.  In moments, she took his shame and, bound in her love, made it something more.  Made  _ him _ something more, and he would never understand how or why  _ he _ came to be the object of such affection.  But at the moment, he hadn't the strength to argue with her and so became the unworthy recipient of her love.  

 

He held her aloft until the shaking in his arms forced him to sit her feet back on the floor, but even then his kiss followed her down.  It ended breathlessly with his hands cradling her face and hers braced against the quick rise and fall of his chest.  She hummed a deep breath as their foreheads rested against the other, and she quietly asked, “You'll stay, then?”  He couldn't help but offer her a weak chuckle as he drew back to find her eyes.  “If there's a man in Thedas who could resist such an offer, I haven't met him.”  To hide the blush that darkened her cheeks, she let her face fall as she smoothed her hands down his chest.   “First a bath, then we’ll see about the rest, yes?” as she canted an eye up at him.  He only nodded and let her lead him when her hand found his.  In the washroom, she motioned to a small chair, and he sat as she went about running the water, a small fire rune added to the bottom of the tub for good measure.  

 

His fingers were as knotted and useless as a ball of tangled yarn as he tried to unlace his boots, but his hands were gently pushed away to make room for her nimble attentions.   He couldn't help but watch, fingers lithe and long making short work of the laces.  She had an archer’s hands, and he occasionally forgot that she was just as skilled with a pair of daggers, which required the agility she wielded so easily.  When she began to tug off his boots, she pulled her hair back out of the way, and his silent appreciation turned into guilt as the oval bruises of red and purple stood out against the skin of her neck.  He must have made some noise of discontent for when he shook himself from his reverie, she was staring at him with concern.  

 

“Did I hurt you?” she asked as she let his second empty boot fall to the floor.  He shook his head slowly, the tightness in his throat not allowing him to answer immediately as she knelt to pull his socks off.  “Just the opposite,” he finally managed to say as he drew a fingertip up her throat and beneath her chin.  Tossing his socks aside, she grabbed his hand and drew it to her lips, pressing kisses against his knuckles.  “You must stop dwelling on that, Cullen.  It  _ will _ heal, and I am not so easily broken.”  The smile that bent his lips was rueful as she laid his hand back against his knee.  “Perhaps  _ I  _ am,” he confessed, solemn amber eyes hesitantly rising to hers.  

For once, Caitlin seemed at a loss for words, her mouth opening and closing again without ever having spoken.   

 

In lieu of words, she shuffled closer and draped an arm over his shoulder as her fingers threaded into his hair.  The light scrape of her nails on his scalp made his eyes slip shut as her mouth rose to his.  It was a tender kiss, one he was helpless but to accept and even less able to resist returning as his hands found their way to her ribs, summoning her to rise on her knees.  Hooking an arm about her, a hand trailed up her spine, over the back of her neck, and into her hair, tilting her head as he sought to deepen the kiss.  He grazed her lips with his tongue, soft strokes that were as gentle as whispered apologies, yet utterly needful.  This was yet another thing he didn’t deserve, though he took it when it was readily offered.  For her, he was tragically weak.  When her lips parted on the breath of a sigh, he pressed in, relishing the impossibly slow slide of his tongue across hers.  The dizziness that consumed him now was more than the need for lyrium that sang in his veins, and he was lost in it.  He clutched at her, needing her balance as the small sounds shared from her mouth to his set his head to spinning.

 

The intensity of his grip seemed to ground her, and reluctant fingers fell from his hair to his shoulders, where she pushed more to pry herself away than move him.  “Mm, this hadn't been part of my care plan, Commander,” she said against his lips, “but I suppose I could make modifications,” she murmured as she brushed the hair back from his brow.  He leaned into her touch, saying “I certainly wouldn't complain if you did.”  She offered him a smile as she drug her thumb across his unshaven cheek, then sat back on her heels and began to tug off his socks.  Once those were thrown aside, she rocked back and came to her feet, gesturing him upward.  Dutifully, he rose to stand before her, and both were silent as she worked down the line of buttons on his shirt.  

 

Were it just him, he'd have pulled it off over his head, hands incapable of manipulating the tiny buttons.   But she made quick work of them, and with her hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders, she pushed the fabric down his arms.  As she was folding the cotton to place it aside, it occurred to him that this was as unclothed as she had ever seen him.  Laid bare in all manner of ways, he shifted his weight as she returned to him, and the way her gaze was drawn to the scars that marred his skin made him self-conscious.  However, she said nothing as her eyes dropped, and she began to reach for the waist of his pants.   He caught her wrists lightly, and she seemed startled by the touch, a none too subtle flush rising on her skin. 

 

“I can manage,” he said, hoping to diffuse the awkwardness somewhat, and she turned to the room’s small vanity to pluck up a frosted glass container.  “Then I'll let you soak while I fetch something from the kitchens and a change of clothes for you,” she commented as she dipped a hand into the container before scattering a handful of salts into the bath water.  Steam instantly rose, heavy and aromatic, as she tossed in another handful before setting the container aside.  A quick swirl of the water stirred the salts, instantly clouding the tub’s contents.  She glanced at him as she paused in the doorway, saying, “I'll return shortly,” before she stepped out and closed the door behind her.  

 

He took a deep breath, and he couldn't be sure if it was the sudden infusion of air in his lungs or the steam, but his mind was beginning to fog a little, similar to the mirror that hung above the vanity.  Swiping a hand across the glass, he took a reluctant account of his reflection.  He found himself haggard -- three days worth of stubble on his jaw, skin unusually pale, and his eyes dark with insufficient sleep.  He scratched idly at his neck before he shook his head and set to work on the laces of his pants.  Maker, he really didn't know what Caitlin saw when she looked at him; he didn't see anything in his reflection that would inspire the kind of love she professed.  He saw only Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall, empty lyrium vials and sleepless nights haunted by memories far too real for how much time had passed.

 

Once unlaced, his pants were tossed across the chair, and he gingerly dipped a foot in the tub.  The water was somewhere just shy of scalding, and he eased down into it with a steady hiss from between his teeth.  Though, as soon as he settled and leaned back against the shoulder-height curve of the tub, the effect was immediate.  Tension he hadn't realized he was carrying in his lower back bled out in a rush, taking his breath along with it, as his head lolled back with a low hum of appreciation.  The relief was such that it left a tingling sensation in his muscles, and he scooted lower until his knees were above the water’s surface and his shoulders were below.  How long had it been since he'd had a good soak?  Just for the pleasure of it?  He couldn't recall off-hand, but it was something he could get used to.  

 

The aromatic steam billowed around him, and the humidity did nothing to help the untamed mess of his hair.  At the thought, he lifted his hands from the water and raked them back through his curly locks, attempting to reinforce some manner of order.  On something.  Anything.  Without opening his eyes, he slid further down in the tub, which he was a bit too long for, so his knees rose above the surface as his hands dangled from the edges.  As his mind drifted, he could hear her voice in his ears, “ _ When you're within arm's reach, all I want is to touch you. _ ” __ Ignoring that this particular moment was probably not the most appropriate to become fixed on those words, he thrilled in them, in the memory of her face when she spoke them, in the warmth of her hand on his jaw.

 

The longer he sat and drifted, the lighter his limbs were and the heavier his eyelids became.   Memories of her voice had given way to a rare quiet that had overtaken his mind, and it -- as much as the water -- served to loosen his muscles.  By degrees, his eyes fell closed, and he didn't realize he'd dozed off until he felt fingers raking through his hair.  He hummed his pleasure as his head tilted into the touch, and when his eyes finally drug open, he found Caitlin sitting with her arm propped on the tub’s edge.  “Mm, I'm sorry.  I couldn’t keep my eyes open,” he apologized, the corners of his mouth lifting in a languid smile.  She chuckled a bit to herself as she brushed through his hair again, “It’s the elfroot.  It has the same effect in steam as in smoke.”  His expression didn't waver, the smile abiding until his mind caught up with her words, and then his eyes widened as his mouth fell slightly agape. 

 

“I... **you** _drugged_ me,” he said, the muted shock in his voice belied by the crooked slant of his lips, as if he found the very idea amusing.  She hummed her agreement as she nodded at him, saying, “Yes, that sounds accurate,” as she curled a finger in the damp locks at the nape of his neck.  As he shook his head and clucked his tongue at her, she offered him a heavy stoneware mug.  “Start sipping on this and finish your bath.  I've set your clothes out on the chair there,” she gestured over her shoulder as she pushed to her feet.  He sniffed cautiously at the tea in the mug before he turned a suspicious eye up to her.  “Is this drugged, too?  Should I be concerned?”  She answered him with a quick _Yes_ before she pressed a kiss to the top of his head and left the obvious _lack_ of information hanging in the air as she stepped back out of the washroom. 

 

He stared after her for a moment, then sniffed the tea again before taking a hesitant sip.  Herbal, but sweet, and cool enough to finish in three long swigs.   He leaned to carefully deposit the mug on the floor and snagged a cloth and soap in the same reach.  --  By the time he rinsed the last of the suds from his hair and stepped from the tub, a warm tingle had spread throughout his body, and his head was heavy, but not in an unpleasant way.  In contrast, the rest of him felt weightless as he stepped from the washroom wearing only his smalls, with the rest of his clothes draped over his arm.  The room was warm with firelight, and Caitlin looked up from the hearth as she heard the door open.  She tried to hide her impish smile behind her hand as she cleared her throat and stared, unabashedly, at him.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, brow knitted and low as he gazed at her.  “I, ah...nothing is wrong,” she said as she made her way over to him, “You're just a little less dressed than I expected.”  Cullen glanced down at himself and considered his state of undress for the first time.  He was oddly unconcerned with it, and he hitched one shoulder in a shrug as he took a step toward her.  That was all he managed, however, before the sensation in his left leg evaporated, and it was like stepping off a ledge and into open air.  The only thing that kept him from falling face first to the floor was Caitlin, as she just did manage to get in under his shoulder to provide a stabilizing handhold.  Awkwardly, he dropped his clothes and clutched at her for support as a rather undignified and surprised sound fell from his lips.  It was strange and slurring, wordless, and oddly amusing.  He couldn't help but laugh at it.  

  
  


Caitlin’s brow lifted as she stood him a little straighter and gazed up into his widely dilated eyes.  “Where is your tea?”  He lifted a hand from her shoulder to point in the direction of the washroom, but instead of simply swinging his arm in that direction, he tried to turn his whole body.  He wasn’t entirely certain if that was intentional or not.  “Finished it,” he mumbled out as he swayed, and only the leverage of her entire body’s weight against him kept him from falling.  She swore, loudly, as she maneuvered him toward the bed.  “Maker’s breath, Cullen!  I told you to  _ sip _ !”  He spluttered, full and loud and long, and leaned into her, arms wrapped loosely about her shoulders.  “It’s fine.  ‘Sokay,” he slurred, and she grunted in return as his leg bumped into the mattress.  “It’s not  _ fine _ .  Completely forgetting everything  _ else _ that was in it, it was full of blood lotus and valerian,” she said, and while he realized she sounded perturbed, it didn’t especially concern him.  He was much more intrigued by the color of her hair at the moment.

 

“Pssshh,” he uttered, lifting a hand from her shoulder to pinch lightly at strands of her violently red hair.  “‘S pretty.  The hairs...your hairs...hair,” he said, eyes blinking wide and wider as he repeated the phrase until it finally came out at least partially correct.  He nodded his approval at his job well done and petted her long locks, a slow and uneven smile spreading his lips.  “You know, I leave you alone for just a few minutes,” she began, but her words were cut short as his weight shifted, and he began to tetter.  She shuffled him enough to direct his fall toward the bed and let go, intending to let him crash  _ then _ deal with the aftermath, but he refused to let go.  And, so over they both went in one laughing -- on his part -- and swearing -- on her part -- heap.  

 

He was laying over the top half of her body, laughing into her shoulder as she tried to squirm from underneath him.  As soon as she started wiggling away, his arm on her tightened to hold her in place.  “Don’ go.  Stay,” he muttered into the hair over her ear, fumbling lips eventually finding their way beneath to the skin of her neck.  She was warm under his lips, sweet with skin like honey and a scent like the softest summer rain.  He murmured against her skin, something wordless as his lips slid lower and around to the hollow of her throat.  He kissed every bruise he'd left earlier, stroked them with his tongue in apology before he moved on.  His hand...he wasn't sure where his hand was, but it was soft, so soft, and he stroked with his fingers and let them explore.  

 

Distantly, he heard her voice -- it sounded surprised, then it sounded...he didn't know.  Like something else, and he kissed the underside of her jaw as he listened to the soft sighs she gave him.  Only her hands on his face finally stopped him, and he rested the weight of his head in them.  He hadn't realized his head was so heavy.  When he lifted his eyes to her, his were lips still slightly puckered.  “Hmm?” he managed to ask, and she responded with, “Not to discourage you in the future, but you're really in no state for this right now, love.”  He spluttered again, somewhat more quietly than before and tried to kiss her lips as he murmured ‘ _ sokay  _ and  _ ‘sfine  _ over and over.  Before he arrived at his destination, however, the extremely fuzzy world blinked out existence, and he knew nothing more.  

 

*

 

Halfway into leaning to kiss her, Cullen's eyes fluttered like hummingbird wings before falling closed, and his head became dead weight in her hands.  Heaving out a sigh that was relief and frustration in equal measure, she gently held his head in the cradle of one arm.  With a lot of wiggling and squirming, she ungracefully eased from beneath his body and turned his head so she could lay his cheek against the bed.  She couldn’t help it; she propped one hand on her hip as she stood back, while the other held her jaw, and she took a moment to appreciate this situation.  Drugged and sedated, Cullen lay utterly unconscious and  mostly naked half in and half out of her bed.  To say that this hadn’t gone as planned might be an understatement.  

 

She could only shake her head as she tugged the covers from beneath his body and folded them down the bed.   When she rolled him onto his back, an arm flopped limply over his chest, and he snorted softly in his sleep.  “I have to say, Commander,” she began, unworried about waking him, “I've imagined having you in my bed many times.”  Wrapping her arms around his legs at the calves, she grunted as lifted them and shoved them onto the bed, then went about laying his arms carefully across his stomach.  “But this,” she said, huffing a breath to blow her hair back out of her eyes as she grabbed the blankets, pulled them down from under his heels, then back up over his body to his chest.  “...is  _ not _ what I had in mind,” she finished as she lifted his head just enough to better arrange a pillow beneath it.  Her head canted to one side as she inspected her work, and her lips twisted into something not entirely unlike a smile.  “Not what I had in mind at all,” she said, brushing his hair back from his brow before she placed a kiss on his forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen wakes up from his drugged tea-induced sleep. People end up naked. 
> 
> Such is life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The exceptionally long conclusion.
> 
> Apologies.

Caitlin had only left Cullen long enough to notify Rylen that he would need to take over the Commander’s duties for the remainder of the day and to ask Josephine to send all reports to her chambers.  She wasn't certain  _ exactly _ how long the tea would keep him out, but she would prefer to be there when he woke.  Most that she encountered on her way to and fro had sense enough about them to keep their curiosities to themselves about the Commander’s absence.  At least until she was out of earshot.   And so, she spent the balance of the afternoon and part of the evening restoring order to the room he'd nearly dismantled earlier, then gradually made her way through the waiting stacks of reports on her desk.  From time to time while one hand was busy with a quill, the other strayed to her neck.   It still ached from the strength of his grip, as though she could still feel his fingers around it.  Bruises had bloomed on her skin before he'd fallen asleep, and she'd had to don a scarf for the little time she'd left her quarters.   

 

One might think the tenderness of the skin would bring to mind fear -- perhaps it did, but not fear of Cullen.  Rather, it was the fear that any living thing feels innately in the face of violence.  What it most brought to her mind, however, was the look on his face when she regained consciousness -- terrified, grateful, broken.  She'd never seen such naked self-loathing as she did in that moment.   She stroked a thumb over her throat as her eyes wandered up to him and found he'd turned onto his side with his back to her.  Though she never heard more out of him than a soft snore, she checked on him frequently.  He seemed calm enough, as if the nightmares he'd told her of had given him a reprieve, and the bath seemed to have been successful in sweating the feverishness out of him.  All that was left was a soundly sleeping man, his slumbering face peaceful and relaxed beneath a crown of unruly golden curls.  

 

When night came, she stacked the wood in the fireplace a little higher and snagged a knitted throw from the foot of the bed to settle down on the couch to read.  She took her evening meal in the same place, flipping pages in the tome on alchemy between taking bites of cheese and smoked meats.  It seemed the longer the night pressed on, the lower she slid on the couch, until she was curled up with only her hands and head outside of the blanket.  Very valiantly, she fought against sleep, but from time to time, she caught her book dipping from a failing grip until at last, she was no longer awake to catch it and it thudded against the floor.  

 

*

 

When Cullen woke, it wasn't to gasping breaths and terror-stricken night sweats.  It was slow and easy, with his first waking thoughts hazily taken with the simple marvel of his soft and even breathing.  His eyes didn't open immediately; he just enjoyed the sensations of warmth, of the departing fog of truly restful sleep.  It was later, when he was nuzzling into the pillow, that he caught her scent.  It gave him momentary pause, but that passed quickly, and he turned his face fully into the pillow to breathe her in.  Lifting his head, he open his eyes and found himself somewhere other than he expected.  The light was dim, largely coming from the fireplace, with a few candles burned nearly to the nub on the table, where Caitlin appeared fast asleep on the nearby couch.  His mind hiccuped, and he had to take another look around to satisfy himself that he was, in fact, awake.  In the Inquisitor’s quarters.  In her bed.  

  
  


With a soft *whumpf*, he let his face fall back into the pillow.   So, it wasn't a nightmare then.  The soldier in the courtyard, the desperate search for the lyrium, the... _ oh, Maker _ .  Tension spiraled along his spine, and he felt the heat of shame rise along his neck to his cheeks, then higher still to burn his ears.   _ How could he?  How could  _ she _ ever forgive him?  Trust him? _  With his hands curled into fists beneath the pillow, he pushed up onto his elbows and glanced at her again. She was sleeping so peacefully, one arm draped from under a knitted throw, a book splayed open on the floor where it’d fallen from her hand.  After everything,  _ she _ was the one sleeping on the couch.  Unacceptable.  Pushing the blankets down, he slipped from the bed and stretched.  It felt like he'd slept for an age, though even now, he felt he could sleep more.  

 

The floor was chilly beneath the soles of his feet as he moved to crouch beside her.  He retrieved the abandoned book and deposited it on the table before he blew out the nearly spent candles.  When he turned back to her, he couldn’t help but draw the strands of red from her face to turn them behind her ear.  She stirred, burrowing deeper into the blankets, though she didn't wake.  “Caitlin,” he whispered near her ear, “we need to get you into bed, love.”  Her face tilted toward the sound of his voice, and she murmured quietly, but otherwise didn't respond.  They'd yet to sleep together -- in any sense of the expression -- so he had no idea how hard a sleeper she was.  With the hope that she was a heavier one, he worked an arm beneath her shoulders and the other beneath the crook of her knees and lifted her, still draped in the throw, from the couch.  

 

Her head lolled to rest against his bare chest, and the sight of her tucked against him was one that stirred an ache at the very center of him.  It was difficult to ignore, something he had felt so rarely in his life that it was as precious to him as anything might ever be.  Taking a deep breath, he carried her to the bed, carefully depositing her head on a pillow before he removed the throw and began to fold it.  If there were to be confessions at a later time, he would feel compelled to admit that his gaze had strayed down the length of her bare legs, that he’d noted the pale ivory cotton of her sleeping gown and how its thin weave hid not a single curve.  He shook his head at himself as he tossed the folded throw onto the couch, then carefully worked the blankets from beneath her legs before drawing the covers up to tuck them around her.  

 

When he bent to place a kiss on her temple, a drowsy smile surfaced on her lips as she snaked an arm around his neck.  Momentarily trapped, he braced his hands into the mattress to either side of her as she murmured in a dreamy hum to him.  “Stay,” was all she said as she blinked her violet eyes open to gaze at him from beneath heavy lids.   “I think you need to sleep more than you need me here,” he uttered in return, voice low with the knowledge that  _ staying _ was exactly what he would prefer to do.   She tugged on his neck, and he obligingly bowed lower over her, and she said  _ stay _ again, but this time her breath grazed his jaw and was quickly followed by her lips.  A shiver made him roll his shoulders to try to shake the sensation off as he tilted his gaze upward.  It would have been a more honorable gesture if it had been ask the Maker for strength.  However, his mind was far from the Maker and was instead lost in the lips on his neck that branded his body a traitor to his better judgment.  

 

She took the gravelly rumble in his chest as a  _ yes  _ and let her hand drift away as she scooted to the middle of the bed and held the covers open for him.  His amber gaze was slow to fall, but it eventually fixed steadily on hers as he hung precariously between propriety and desire.  The longer he lingered, however, the more triumphant her sleepy smile became and the less able he found himself to resist it.   _ Maker’s balls _ .  He hung his head and chuckled, eyes cutting back up to her with a chastising expression.  “Just for a while,” he conceded as he turned his back to sit on the edge of the bed.  He took the brief moment of privacy to rearrange himself into a less apparent state and swung his legs up and under the covers.  The blankets had barely settled over him before she was pressed against his side, and he shifted to stretch a cradling arm beneath her head.  The hint of an amused smile haunted his lips until his eyes panned down to her and latched onto the bruises on her neck.

  
  


“Caitlin,” he said, the last syllable of her name stretching out as if he were afraid to let it go.  “Hm?” she responded as she made herself comfortable in the crook of his arm.  Her hair was as soft as cornsilk against his shoulder and strands of it tickled at the side of his neck when she tilted her face up.  “About earlier,” he began, wanting nothing more than to avert his eyes, fearing the scrutiny and condemnation of her gaze, though he forced himself not to break eye contact.  She was shifting her head in a slight shake before she ever spoke.  “No, this is not necessary, Cullen,” she said, and an exasperated sound escaped him before he could help himself.  “It is necessary.  I almost... _ killed _ you, Caitlin,” and his inflection on the word made his voice crack.  For the briefest moment, he could feel the ghost sensation of her neck tensing against his fingers, his joints aching with the strength of his grip.  It turned his stomach now, squeezed his chest painfully, and the back of his throat became sore as he stared at her, a victim to her unflinching gaze as she leaned up to fold an arm atop his chest.  

 

“It isn’t...and you didn’t,” she assured him as her fingertip drew a feathered touch along his jawline.  The effort not to argue made his teeth clench, and its just as well that it did else the scratch of her nail over his stubble would have sent a trembling breath from his lips.  “I passed out, and I was confident that was as far as it would go,” she said, offering him a small smile as she rested her chin against the back of her arm.  The tortured sound in his voice when he spoke surprised him; “How?   _ How _ could you be certain?  Even I wasn’t sure,” he confessed, amber eyes sorrowed as his throat constricted on the last words.  Her head canted, spilling several locks of hair across his chest.  “Because I see in you what you cannot see in yourself,” she began, lifting her head before continuing.  “I know that this,” she said, pressing two gentle fingers to his temple, “will never overpower this,” she finished as her hand fell, palm resting squarely over his heart.  

 

The muscle in his jaw pulsed as he swallowed and averted his eyes.  “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of,” he said in a hush, his voice laden with regret, with fear, and with shame.  “I’ve an idea of what you’re  _ not _ capable of,” she said, the firmness of her voice commanding the return of his eyes to hers.  It was unexpected, the gravity of her tone, as well the expression she wore, which made the tightness around her mouth obvious.  His brows slanted lower, and his eyes darkened just a touch.  “I don’t underst-,” was all he managed to say before she drew one outstretched finger across his lips.  “I’ve had the measure of you, Cullen Rutherford, nearly since I met you.”  A light flush tinted his skin, and he couldn’t veil the questioning in his eyes as he removed her finger from over his lips.  She took a breath, deeper than normal, and it shuddered on the way out.  “When I awoke in the cell at Haven, my mind was such a jumble of fragmented thoughts and visions.  I wasn’t certain yet what was real and what wasn’t,” she said.  The far-off tone of her voice was mimicked by her eyes as they strayed to the path her finger traced on his jaw before it settled, curled, beneath his ear..

 

The memory of that time, as much as her touch, ran chills through him.  “At first, I’d thought it a nightmare...the memories I had of hands, rough and unkind...unwelcome in the places that they roamed,” she continued, stretching out her index finger to snag a single golden coil of hair.  As much as he would love to claim otherwise, her meaning was apparent, and the line of his mouth hardened.  Shortly after she’d been taken into custody, a panicked guard had interrupted his meeting with the captain of an arriving troop of soldiers.  The man’s face had been pale, voice shaking and harried as he explained the situation.  Cullen swallowed, hard, and let his fingertips rest against her elbow.  The first time he'd really seen her, she'd been bent face-down over a table in the her cell, trousers around her ankles and a guard behind her, working at the laces of his pants.  Cullen had seen red, blood red.  Nothing had changed since his days as a Templar; he found the act about to unfold before him as barbarous now as he had then.

 

In his time as a Templar, he’d heard things... _ seen _ things...and at that time, had neither the authority nor courage to stop them.  It would always be one of his greatest shames that he had not done more then.  After the events at Kinloch and in Kirkwall, though he thought mages unsafe to live unsupervised.  But he had never been able to reconcile himself to the sometimes pervasive Templar opinion that it was acceptable to take pleasure by force from their charges.   Even as Knight-Commander, he'd not had enough sway to stop it completely.  There were those that would obey his orders against such things, but there were also those loyal to Meredith that did not.  It weighed on him, the guilt of it, the happenings he'd felt powerless to prevent, and he'd sworn that should he ever find himself in the command of his own army, such would not be tolerated.  Under any circumstances.  

 

When he found her like that, he momentarily envisioned beating the guard within an inch of his life right there in the cell, but his concern for Caitlin, her safety, and her dignity won his better judgment.  Though, he'd found time enough for punishments later.  After many long, uncomfortable moments of silence, he forced his gaze back to hers, an apology in his eyes if not on his lips.  “You didn’t have to stop him.  There are many men who would not have.  Especially considering what I was accused of at the time,” she said, her voice having softened as her fingertips drew tiny patterns against his scalp.  “No decent man would have allowed it,” he said simply, only to be answered by the shaking of her head.  “No, the man that decided not to participate and fetch you instead was  _ decent _ .  It was a  _ good _ man who actually stepped in,” she pointed out, making the distinction as she offered him a faint smile.  “I will do things to you that will make you useless to a woman,” she parroted back to him, and a dark flush crept up his neck and to his cheeks.  

 

“I...didn't think you'd recall that,” he said sheepishly as he gazed over her shoulder to some indistinct point in the dim room behind her.  “I  _ don't _ remember most of it, but a piece here and there has come back to me,” she confessed, tapping her thumb against his jaw to summon his attention back to her.  “I'm...sorry, Caitlin, that I couldn't spare you from as much as  _ did _ happen...and that I never told you myself.  I...didn't know how,” he said, eyes firm on hers and filled with shame and disappointment in himself.   “I didn’t bring this up for an apology, Cullen,” she said, pausing under the weight of his guilt-ridden gaze long enough to grip his chin.  “I’m  _ trying _ to...you-,” she broke off, letting out a frustrated sigh as she pulled his face so that their eyes were level as she stared him down.  “Maker, you are so difficult.  You  _ are _ a  _ good _ man.  What happened earlier doesn’t change that,” she said, words and tone alike forceful and brooking no argument.  

 

A dull heaviness settled at the center of his chest, and he couldn’t continue to hold her gaze.  He wanted to be what she thought he was --  _ a good man _ \-- and he was trying.  Trying to let go of the horrors he’d seen, the doctrine that had sown hatred in an already fragile psyche, the lyrium that had held him captive to powers he no longer wished to serve, that were tarnished in his eyes.  But, he could not ignore the bruises on her neck.  They were evidence of his failing.  The lithe fingers that gripped his chin stretched beneath his jaw and forcefully turned his face back to her.  He hadn’t realized there were tears in the corners of his eyes until the turn allowed gravity to pull one across his temple and into his hairline.  Caitlin tsked softly as brushed the tear away, her touch warm and tender, soothing in a way that made his heart clutch.  

 

“I  _ trust _ you, always, even in such a state because I  _ know _ you are stronger than the lyrium, Cullen.  I know  _ you _ .  You can’t tell me I don’t.”  With each word she spoke, she grew more fervent and more hushed, as if she could sneak her assertions past his rebuttals with sheer will alone.  Her unveiled sincerity made it hard for him to argue, or to swallow, or breathe because despite how many times she said it, his doubt always lingered, stifling like a massive stone on his chest.  He didn’t feel worthy of her praise.  Suddenly, gazing at her out of the corner of his eye was no longer enough, and he turned onto his side to face her.  He lifted a hand and hesitated before he reached to cradle her cheek in his palm.  Her skin was soft beneath the roughness of his calloused fingers, warm, and regardless of his protestations, he was stirred by her confidence in him, bolstered by her ceaseless assurances.  He couldn’t help but touch her.  The satin of her slid against his palm, fingers tangled in silk when they slipped into her hair.  And, the smile she gave him was like a secret passed between them.  Delicate and precious.  Worth protecting.  

 

He curled his fingers loosely in her hair, and when he spoke, his voice was more breath than sound.  “I don’t deserve you,” he professed as he lowered both his head and his eyes.  He didn’t see her smile widen, but he heard its influence when she spoke.  “I believe it is for me to decide who is deserving of my affections, and I think I’ve made my decision clear, Commander,” she spoke the words against his skin, each syllable brushing her lips to his in a way that made him want to taste them.  To drink them before they were spoken.  He wanted to believe, he needed to, and he gave his resignation to her as he said, “I am yours to command, Inquisitor,” his volume barely above a whisper before his mouth captured hers.  Between them, her fingers splayed against his chest, light and caressing as she drew spirals on his skin, idle swirls that tickled the sparse curls there.  The fire she kindled within him wasn't so much an inferno as a smolder, a deeply burning consumption that spread from the center of his chest and into his belly.  It seared her into his bones, into his blood until her flames were etched on every part of him.  

 

A weightlessness filled him as he took her in, as she burned away his uncertainty and his doubts.  And, it thrilled him beyond reckoning that it was she that made to deepen the kiss, ever the bold one as her tongue slid against his lower lip.  His voice vibrated in his chest as his head tilted, his hand in her hair drew her closer still, and he gladly met the demands her mouth made.  Straying from her hair, his fingers caught upon the narrow, ruffled neckline of her gown, which barely clung to her shoulder.  The thin cotton was no barrier to the heat that radiated from her body, warm and supple against him, and he craved to take in the shape of her, one stroke of his hand at a time.  At an unhurried pace, his touch fell lower, the backs of his fingers grazing the outer curve of her breast and the rise of her hip before sinking across the swell of her backside. The cotton between his skin and hers was a taunting barrier that made him long for what lay beneath.  Just the thought alone firmed his grip and chased a moan from her lips as he subtly shifted against her, pressing his hardened length, trapped though it was, against her hip.

 

In response, her body met his as she moved into the shallow thrust, and she drug the inside of her leg along his until she could hook her knee over his thigh.  Though his eyes were closed, they fluttered behind their lids as her heat ground against him, his pants and her smalls no hindrance to the sensation.   It was that and the insistent dig of her heel into the back of his thigh that broke him, and he reflexively ran his hand along the curve of her calf to the underside of her thigh, where he found the hem of her gown and snuck beneath.  Her core sat right at his fingertips, just out of reach, as he stroked the tender skin of her inner thigh.  It seemed to start at her toes, the tremor that raked through her and teased a throaty whimper from her that made him stop short and break the kiss.  She was as breathless as he as their gazes met, and her violet eyes were as dark as he'd ever seen them.  They darted over his face as if searching; he had no doubt that she'd find that which she sought.   

 

His desire for her was such that it physically pained him; the tightness trapped beneath the restriction of laces and the very real ache in his chest that was a culmination of his heaving breaths and barely held restraint.  She was all he could see, and everything else dissolved away as the Fade does when waking from a dream into reality once more.   The breathless sound of his name on her lips and the gentle tug on the back of his neck was all it took to command his surrender.  He rose onto his elbow, bowing to capture her mouth again as he drew her leg to his hip.  Pressed so close, the shudder that shook her went right through and into him.  He could no longer distinguish his needy sounds from hers, and all at once,  _ this _ close wasn't close enough.  Shifting his weight, leaned into her, gently coaxing her onto her back as he settled between her thighs.  Her hand fell away from his hair to drape over his shoulder, and he nipped lightly at her lips before he tore himself away to taste her skin.  He worked his kiss along her jaw, teeth a gentle scrape on the curve that rose to her ear, and his hand ghosted over hip to settle against her side.  

 

When he traced the tip of his tongue along the line of her ear and caught the lobe between his lips, a small sound accompanied her sharp intake of breath.  He buried his smile against her throat, feather-light kisses he trailed to the hollow of her shoulder, where he laid his teeth against the skin.  A broken gasp caught in her throat, and she wrapped both arms over his shoulders, hands meshing into his hair.  He shifted, tilted his mouth beneath her ear, and whispered, “The sounds you make are as delicious as your skin, my lady,” before his mouth fell to her pulse.  The warmth of her skin brought to his senses the fragrance of sweet lilacs on chords of dark vanilla, and he breathed her in.  He was enthralled:  the taste of her skin, the feel, the sounds that escaped her lips, and the scent that lured him.  His head was pleasantly light as strands of her hair tickled his cheeks, and he kneaded at her side, bunching the thin fabric in his fist as he fought the urge to reach beneath.  

 

Instead, he sucked at the heartbeat that throbbed against his tongue and bent to brush his lips along her collarbones.  He had to pause then, hand hesitating on her stomach, fingers splayed and itching to travel, and he leaned his forehead against her shoulder.  The rise of her chest lifted him, her breath ruffled his hair, and her hands combed through as she held him.  He needed a moment, to slow his breath, to allow his mind to catch up with his body.  He didn’t want to rush.  But it was  _ so _ difficult when she was all but writhing beneath him, caresses of her form against him that teased and taunted.  With a final kiss at the base of her throat, he lifted his face and found her gazing up at him with eyes half-lidded with desire and the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.  His smile mirrored hers as he let his hand work between them.  Blunt fingers explored the softness of her belly until they came upon the lower curve of her breast, barely brushing as he hesitated.  

 

“May I?” was his request, and a nod was her reply.  A rumble grew from deep in his throat as he stroked the underside, then cradled her, thumb swirling over her already pert nipple.  He watched her all the while, delighting in the way her eyes ticked wider and her breaths sped.   One hand fell from his hair to rest on his forearm, and she ran her fingers along the muscles that tensed and pulled beneath the skin as he held her, rolled the stiff peak between his fingers.  She hummed her pleasure, low in her throat as she arched up and into his touch, and one corner of his mouth lifted as his head dipped.  He nosed through the valley of her breasts, brushed his cheek against the swell, and caught the neglected nipple between his lips.  There was a brief fluttering of her eyes as he flicked his tongue against it, through the fabric of her gown, and she squirmed beneath him as he closed his mouth on her.  

 

She shivered, and he gathered her breast in his hand, suckling through the cotton on the bud that was hard on his tongue.  When he scraped his teeth over the rise, the sound that toppled from her lips tugged in the pit of his stomach, lower, and he groaned on her before he lifted his face.  “Maker, Cait,” he said as he pressed his lips to the underside of her chin, her jaw. “I want to see you.  All of you...please,” he finished in a whisper as he lapped at her throat, then drew back to catch her eyes.  Her gaze was even, steady, though the flush on her cheeks had crossed the bridge of her nose and risen to her ears.  Without looking away, she let her hands slip from his shoulders to the cord that closed the neckline of her gown, and he held her gaze with rapt attention as she tugged on the tails of the bow.  The knot slipped free, and his eyes strayed, falling to her hands as the fabric slid down from her shoulders.  The opening didn’t even reach her sternum, but he trailed a fingertip along the path of exposed skin before he sat up onto his knees.  

 

With an easy smile, he offered a hand down to her, and she took it with only a moment’s hesitation.  As she came to her knees, she pulled the hem of her gown up her thighs a tad to shuffle closer to him.  She didn't speak, only passed a somewhat meek glance up to him before she lifted her arms overhead.  He let his gaze linger a few long moments on hers, gauging her certainty, before he leaned to take the lower hem in hand.  He was unable to tear his eyes away as her skin was revealed inch by inch as the cotton gathered in his hands.  His knuckles grazed the outside of her thighs, the rise of her hips, and her ribcage before he lifted the gown from her arms.  The garment seemed little more than a slip of fabric as it hung from his fist, and her eyes lowered with her arms, gaze stalling somewhere around the middle of his chest as he tossed the gown away.  Slowly, he let his eyes pan downward once her arms had come to rest by her sides, and for a moment, he didn't breathe.  Simply took in the sight of her.  

 

The pale burnished tone of her skin was gilded by the firelight; shadows pooled above her collarbones as the light trickled lower.  Her breasts were full and heavy, her belly smooth and soft, and her generous hips tapered to finely muscled thighs.  He was utterly silent, unable to form words through the haze of his thoughts.  It didn't occur to him that his prolonged stare might concern her because he was too busy trying to commit every line to memory.  Every curve and swell, each expanse of smooth skin.  He sat back on his heels with the softest of sighs.  She was perfection.

 

Unabashed, he gazed upon her with open admiration, and he wet his lower lip with his tongue.  While he had certainly seen a woman nude before, it had been a while, and he wasn't certain that there had ever been one that was his own.  The silence stretched so long that her nervous fingers toyed with the thin strip of cloth that clung to her hip as she sat in only her smalls before him. Fidgeting, she stroked idle fingers over her stomach as she began to raise her arms to cover herself.  “Say  _ something _ , Cullen,” she pleaded quietly, and he finally tilted his eyes up to hers.  With a gentle grip, he caught her wrists and pulled her arms back down to her sides.  “You’re…”  His voice trailed off as his eyes peeled up to hers.  “You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” he said, voice low, reverent.  His hand on her waist brought her shuffling forward until she sat astride one of his thighs, and a slow smile eased one corner of her mouth upward.  He lifted his hands, eyes falling from hers to map the trail his fingertips took, grazing the line of her shoulders and along her collarbones.  He turned his hands and brushed the backs of his knuckles over the outer curve of her breasts as he lifted his eyes to hers.  

 

There was something unassuming in her eyes, the sort of expression that comes with beauty that doesn't regard itself as such.   _ Meek  _ was seldom a word to describe Caitlin, but in this moment, it seemed appropriate.  Rising from his heels brought his body flush with hers, and his arm fell easily around her waist as he trailed a finger down from the base of her throat.  She shuddered against him and breathed out a trembling sigh as his hand cupped her breast, massaging firmly as he pinched the peak between his middle and forefingers.  He watched her, so so closely, as his hand worked over her flesh.  She was a bundle of whimpers and hums she tried to hide, shaken loose by how she shivered at his touch.  He was emboldened by the sight, seeing her so affected, and his head dipped as he gathered the soft mound and lifted it to his lips.  The sound she made when he laved his tongue over the pebbled bud was a frail thing -- a frail thing that dissolved into a shuddering moan when he closed his lips around it.  Deep in his throat, he groaned, and the hand he had at the small of her back pressed her forward as his mere sampling of her skin became a feast.  

 

Her fingers found their way into his hair, and she held him against her for a moment before her hand fell away.  He broke from her and leaned into her touch when she cupped his cheek, and his head fell back into her palm when she laced her fingers into his curls at the base of his skull and tugged gently.  She seemed to consider him, letting her eyes trail over his features before her hand softened and slipped from his hair to the side of his neck.  Sitting prone beneath her gaze, neck exposed and vulnerable, sent a rush of heat through him that caused a dull ache to pulse low in his body, down the insides of his thighs.  “Cullen?” she asked, raking through his hair, nails against his scalp causing fingers of electricity to crawl down his limbs and into his groin.  A shallow gasp parted his lips and made his eyelids flutter.  “Cullen,” she said as she leaned to press her lips to his: a light kiss, incomplete, the promise of what was yet to come.  “Make love to me,” were the words she committed to his lips, eyes unerringly locked on his.  Heat rippled through him, setting his skin to burning, and he flushed with desire, with his need for her.  

 

About her head, the firelight set her crimson hair ablaze, and stray locks glowed against her skin as his arm tightened to pull her flush against him.  His eyes were thin haloes of amber as he took her in, the corner of his mouth rising to tug at the scar on his lip.   “Are you certain?” he questioned, feeding a hand into her hair, tugging it back over her ear to allow him to look at her.  She tilted her head into his touch, nodded, and whispered a faint but sure  _ yes. _  Her answer struck him in his chest like a brand, and he pressed into her, pelvis lifting to grind his aching length against her.  She bit her lower lip as she fought back a groan, and he watched her closely when he asked, “Then, why are you trembling like a leaf?”  His thumb traced idle patterns on the small of her back as he watched a deep flush rise on her skin.  When her violet eyes tilted up to his, he was surprised to see bashfulness, a timid shade as she licked her lips and averted her gaze.  “I'm...I've never…” she managed to say before she tucked a few strands of her crimson hair behind her ear and let her hand settle on his waist.  

 

He did his best to restrain the appreciative groan that threatened to part his lips, borne from the most feral part of him, not wanting to seem shamefully lecherous.  Instead, his lips parted on a near-silent breath, words somehow stuck on his tongue.   _ Maker’s breath.   _ The longer he sat with her words and their meaning, the higher his heart rose in his chest until it was throbbing at the base of his throat.  Unfortunately, his hesitation was not subtle, and she sensed it.  Withdrawing her hand from his waist, she murmured a quiet, “I'm sorry,” as she leaned out of the circle of his arm.  “I should have...told you sooner,” she said, voice soft as her eyes turned aside and began to search for her gown.  Cullen forced himself to swallow and quickly shook his head to scatter the fog that had stalled his mind.  “No, Caitlin!  Wait,” he begged, and his hand snapped out to catch her gently by the elbow.   She halted her retreat, but stood still, facing away with her head bowed.  

 

“Come back...please,” he urged, giving a subtle tug on her arm.   Shifting her eyes over her shoulder to him, she reluctantly turned, and his arm slid from her elbow to her waist.  Crawling fingers gathered her to him as one might gather cloth, small measures at a time, until she was hugged against his side.   Her eyes rose no further than his shoulders, and he'd have thought it was impossible, but her cheeks were burning more darkly now than when she made her confession.  “Caitlin, look at me,” he pleaded, fingers slipping aside her jaw as his thumb settled beneath the tip of her chin to lift it.  Chewing on the inside corner of her lips, she hesitantly met his gaze, and he greeted her with a smile as he lowered his head to rest his forehead against hers.  “Please don't apologize.  This is...the farthest thing from a problem that I could possibly imagine.”  Her hand rose again to his waist, where she hooked a nervous finger into a belt loop.  “You're not...disappointed?”  

 

_ Andraste bless _ , he couldn't help himself.  He chuckled as he brushed a kiss to her brow and pulled back to look into her eyes.   “Maker no.   How could I possibly be?”  She hitched one shoulder, saying, “I'm afraid I won't be-,” then paused, making a frustrated sound.  “...won't be... _ enough _ for you,” she sighed on the tail end of the words, heavy and almost relieved by the unburdening of her confession.  He could only stare at her in an incredulous silence before combing her hair back from her face.  “I want you, Caitlin, all of you, and to know I am your first, your choice,” his voice broke on the last few syllables as he shook his head. He let his gaze linger on hers, hoping she could see not only his love for her and his gratitude to be so trusted, but also the raw desire that had set his entire body to thrumming.   His lips grazed a kiss across her cheek so that he could whisper against her skin.  “You are everything I need.”

 

The corners of her mouth lifted, and he held her face between both hands as he leaned to kiss her.  “And, I believe you also overestimate my experience,” he said as he barely drew back, just enough to ease his hand between them.  “But, think of it this way,” he began, fingers crawling their way up her stomach as he spoke.  “It’s an opportunity for us both,” and he stroked the backs of his fingers beneath and around the curve of her breast, “to go slowly.”   His eyes ticked back up to hers as he took her in hand, lifting as he continued to speak, “And, I want to taste every last inch of you,” the last few words brushed his lips against the pink bud of her nipple before his mouth engulfed it.  Her voice caught in her throat, and she threaded a hand into his curls to hold him in place as she arched into his mouth.  The taste of her was intoxicating, and the stiff peak rolling beneath his tongue brought sounds from her that sent blood rushing downward through his body.  He hummed around her, cheeks hollowing as he worked his mouth on the soft swell of her flesh as his free hand slid over her hip and beneath the waistband of her smalls.  A slight nudge worked them from where they hung on her hips and down her thighs.  

 

A whimper caught his ears as he pulled his mouth from her skin with a departing kiss before his eyes dropped to observe the last piece of her made bare.  At the apex of her thighs was a thatch of curls as red as the hair on her head, and he closed his eyes for a moment against the sudden thought of having his face buried in it.  His eyes opened with a graveled hum, and he flattened his palm against her hip and let it ghost down her thigh to the inside of her knee.  With no further provocation, she widened her stance just a bit, and it chased heat down his arm to his fingers.  He caressed feathered strokes along the inside of her thigh, and her quickened breaths accompanied the conversion of her trembling into full-body shivers.  His arm tightened on her waist, and he didn't look away from her as his fingers teased into the apex of her thighs.   Her gasp had him stifling a groan against her shoulder; her heat was scalding, and his cock throbbed painfully beneath his pants as he traced a finger between her folds.   She gave out something like a cry, both pleasured and weak before she fumbled to grasp his wrist.  

 

His hand stilled, and he regarded her with silent questioning as her eyes flashed down and away from his face.  Sucking in a sharp breath, she reached for him, hesitating for the barest of moments before she laid a hand against the swell of his cock beneath his pants and kneaded into him.  Before he could stop himself, a low moan fell from his lips, and his hand fell limply away from her.  “I want to see you,” she said, hand gliding over his length as she turned his words back on him.  “All of you,” were her final words before her hand departed, and he involuntarily lurched forward, chasing her touch.  A firm hand on his hip stopped him, and his heated gaze flickered up to hers.  His chest broadened with his breaths, and he  _ ached _ for her touch, but with a deep breath, he nodded to her request  Stepping down from the edge of the bed, his hands fell to the laces of his pants, pausing for only one distracted moment as she slid her smalls the rest of the way down and off.  He hadn’t realized his tongue that snuck between his lips to wet them until he felt the cool air on the moist skin.  He blinked himself out of his reverie in time to see her bunching the bit of fabric in her hand before tossing it playfully at him.  Snatching it from the air, he let his gaze hang heavy on hers as he crumpled her smalls loosely into his fist and brought them to his nose.  The  _ look _ on her  _ face _ and the disbelieving sound she made when he took a deep breath, eyes fluttering, brought a shameless smirk to his lips before he tossed the fabric away.

 

When the last lace was loosened from the final pair of eyelets, Cullen tugged his pants and smalls from his hips and down his legs at the same time.  No longer constricted, relief left him as a sigh as he stepped from the heap of fabric, and his stiffened length bobbed toward his stomach.  His hand fell naturally down his torso to grip at the base of his shaft and sac, trying to ease out the lingering ache of confinement, and his gaze drifted back to Caitlin.  Perched on the edge of the bed, still on her knees, her eyes were fixed at a point much lower than his face, and the look of her shifted, one moment to the next, from huntress to prey.  He couldn’t be certain toward which she was more inclined, but secretly approved of her as a little of both.  For her benefit alone, he curled a fist around himself, palm-down, and stroked, freely letting the resulting groan fall heavy from his lips.  The maneuver had the desired effect, and her eyes shot to his just in time to see his shoulders shake with a shudder..

 

Typically, he wasn’t the sort to show off, but every clipped sound of surprise, each gasp spurred him to act against his nature, if only to hear her response.  Arms extended, she beckoned him forward with the curl of her fingers, and he obediently moved to comply.  His advance brought him within reach of her hands, which flattened against his chest and slipped to his shoulders as he stilled.  Her proximity conveyed heat from her body to his, and he longed to reach for her.  He could still feel her under his palms, on his tongue, her leg wrapped around him.  But this,  _ this _ wasn't about his pleasure alone, though he would without question enjoy every moment.  Fingertips, delicate and unhurried, outlined the contours of his chest, exploring musculature and scars alike.  The memory of each touch was held by his skin long after her hands had departed, leaving him branded by her desire.   When she reached his stomach, the trail of hair that led lower, he involuntarily took an unsteady breath as his cock twitched toward her hand.  He trembled under her touch.  It did not escape her notice, and a quiet smile surfaced on her lips.  

 

He was helpless but to respond in kind, though his cheeks burned with color that ran straight up his neck and to his ears.  He'd absently wondered for a moment if there was any inch of his skin that wasn't blushing, but the thought rushed away when she drug her fingertips down his shaft.   His lips were parted by quicker breaths, lost sounds that escaped him like traitors gone in the night, and his spine straightened to brace against the sensation.  As she studied him, every tremor of muscle, each responsive flinch toward her touch, he watched her.  Her skin was darkened by her blush, cheeks and ears flaming red, while a more subtle hue tinted the rest.  And, even without his touch, her nipples were pebbled, standing stiff and dark.  It was maddening, not to touch, not to roll them with his tongue, and suckle at the whines and sighs she gave.  He contented himself now with her whispered caresses, both too much and not enough, and attempted to tamp down the near overwhelming urge to put his hands on her skin.  

 

Her eyes cut upward to his as she experimentally curled her slender fingers around his shaft, and the breath that left him felt like one he’d been holding for hours.  It drug across his parted lips as his stomach drew in, muscles pulled taut, and he struggled not to let his eyes slide closed.  “Show me what you like,” she said, stroking her free hand along his ribs.  Despite her blush, the tone in her voice was unabashed, and her request wasn’t one that could be denied.  First moments, first touches only came once, and he  _ refused _ to let such opportunities to pass him by.  Wordlessly, he folded his hand over hers that held him and tightened her grip.  --  He had never before in his life stood so entirely naked before anyone; it wasn’t simply the state of his undress, but also how she had utterly laid him bare.  There had been others that had seen what lay beneath the mantle and the armor, but they never knew him or his past.  And, there were those who knew his secrets, the source of his nightmares, and the events that had framed him, but they had never touched him.  Caitlin...she had done both.  The woman with hair of flame and the Fade in the palm of her hand.  She’d had the worst of him, stood toe to toe with the pieces of himself that frightened him the most, and refused to succumb to them...or to allow him to.

 

She stood transfixed, eyes on their hands as he tightened her grip a bit more.  He didn’t think anything would tear her from the sight, but the weight of his hand pulled her eyes to his, her expression clearly concerned that she would harm him.  The corner of his mouth hitched, and he shook his head before he slowly drug her hand down his length.  It would have been arousing enough had it simply been her hand or his, but both gave it an erotic quality that made his chest constrict even as an unrestrained moan fell from his lips.  His eyes closed over the sensation of her palm being pulled over his head, smearing the bead of fluid that had collected there to ease the stroke back up again.  “ _ Oh, Maker, _ ” he whispered, eyes peeling open to watch their hands once more.  As if his speaking had broken the silent wall between them, she turned her eyes to his.  “That isn't too...hard?”  He couldn't stop the throaty chuckle that passed his lips as he shook his head.  

 

“No.  No, you're not... going to hurt...me,” he pushed out the words between stuttered breaths and strokes, then released her hand to push into the hair over her ear.  He needed something to hold onto, an anchor to keep him from drowning in the sensation as she pumped him rhythmically.  Fingers curling, he held her as his breaths became ragged, and a particularly strong stoke brought him a step forward, with the edge of the bed hitting his legs and bowing his head to allow him to stifle his moan in her hair.  “Like _ that _ , yes.   _ Maker _ ,” the words tumbled out of him as the well of heat simmering in his belly coiled and shot lower.  The smell of her hair, the warmth of her skin, and the steady movements of her hand pulled him ever closer to a point there was no returning from.   Reluctantly, he let her hair slide from his fingers so he could stay her arm with his grip.  “I'm not going to make it back into bed if you keep going,” he said, voice rough with restraint as he gazed down on her.  “Well,” she began as she lazily removed her touch, “that would be a shame.”  

 

_ Cheeky _ , he thought, the hint of a smile on her lips as she leaned to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw before she settled back and stretched her legs out between them.  His voice rumbled in his chest, perhaps as much chuckle as abject as he followed her, bracing a knee on the edge of the mattress as he crawled on knuckles and knees toward her.  With a something like a crab crawl, she pulled herself away from him with her arms, a taunt curving her lips as she made a steady retreat to the head of the bed.  Not one to disappoint, he played his part, hunching his shoulders as he lowered his head, growling softly as he stared up at her with a hungry stare.  Lumbering over her, he nipped at her knees, teeth snapping on empty air.  It made her laugh, throaty and rich, at the production solely for her, and the sound made his chest tighten with warmth.

 

She was radiant this way, gilded by firelight, momentarily unburdened by the reality that'd been forced upon her, flushed with desire.  For him.  His chest swelled with the thought of it; more than lust, he had been ensnared by her love.  It had changed him, challenged him, lifted him, and he was afraid he would never have the words to tell her how much.  But for the moment, that thought was pushed aside, and he showed her the white of his teeth as he lunged, a quick hand snatching hold of her ankle.  She yelped, the sound devolving into laughter then a shrill squeak as he yanked her back down the bed.  Knelt beside her legs, he braced his hands on either side, sinking into the mattress as he bowed to nuzzle first just above her knee then along the seam between her thighs.  Her mirth quickly turned, the light sound replaced by a  _ mmm _ that originated from deep in her throat.  His gaze darted to hers, staring intently as he laved his tongue along her inner thigh only to stop just shy of the red thatch hiding her core.  She was all heavy breaths and almost-moans as he nosed into the crevice between her legs, and she parted for him, blush renewed on her cheeks, the upper swell of her breasts.  

 

Moving over her, he settled between her thighs, lowering himself to drag his lips across her pert nipples, the softness of her stomach, and, as he shifted lower on the bed, the sweet dip in each of her hip bones.  She was squirming by the time he was lying on his stomach, face inches from her sex.  She propped herself on her elbows, observing him across the length of her body, and when he scrubbed his scruffy cheek against the inside of each thigh, she spread herself further open still.  The scent of her arousal hit him, and he turned his face to smother his groan against her thigh as he rut shallowly into the mattress.  His lips on her thigh turned into open-mouthed kisses that he strew higher until his nose was buried against her cunt.  Her gasp broke, a short squeak as she curled her fingers in the sheets.  “I don't...what’re you-ah!” her words became formless on her lips as he parted her folds with his tongue, a lapping stroke from bottom to top.  

 

As he collected her arousal on his tongue, he savored her taste, sweet and salt, and groaned his approval before he lowered his head once more.  Snaking his arms beneath her thighs, he shrugged her legs over his shoulders and hauled her closer to his face as he dove into her heat in earnest.  She gave a spurt of laughter that quickly morphed into a squeal, then bottomed out into a guttural moan as the stiff tip of his tongue swirled over her clit.  “ _ Sweet Maker, _ ” she exhaled, head falling back as she fought for a better grip on the bed sheets.  He grinned against her, arching his back slightly into the digging of her heels, and they fell to hook behind his arms.  Around his head, she quivered, and he held her in place with an arm hooked around one thigh as the other hand retreated.  As eager as a man lost for weeks among the Western sands, he drank from her lips, sought a deeper well, and pushed into her with his tongue.  Her breathing became ragged as he tasted her core.

 

A litany of praises to both him and the Maker spilled from her lips between words the formal court would no doubt find unbecoming a lady of her station.  But, they weren't attending court today, and over the obscene sounds he was making himself, head buried between her thighs, he not only didn't care, but found each vulgar pronouncement only inflamed him further.  When she began to rock into his mouth, he met her with a few more thrusts of his tongue before he surfaced to gaze at her.  Her hair fell behind her in a thick curtain, thrown off her shoulders as her head tipped back, her spine was bowed, breasts lifted.  He scraped his teeth lightly across her thigh, and the lifting of her head settled dark violet eyes on him as her hips continued to rise in search of his touch.  He smothered a rumbling groan against her skin, alternately nipping and kissing her thighs as he drew a finger into her folds.  Without making a sound, her lips parted and her chin dropped, the intensity in her stare fuzzed each time he nudged her clit.  

 

His tongue darted across his lips as he settled his chin on her leg, and his voice was firm when he spoke.  “Tell me if I hurt you, yes?”  She bit into her bottom lip as she nodded, and with his attentive gaze fixed on her, he pressed a finger into her.  The widening of her eyes was accompanied by a very soft and choked breath that was duplicated with every shallow pump in and out of her cunt.  Slowly, as he worked her, he nuzzled against her leg, whispering soothing praises into her skin.  When she relaxed onto his finger and the gentle lift of her hips began, he slid in a second.  She pressed her lips down on a whimpered  _ mm _ , and he slowed, asking a concerned, “All right?”  The nodding of her head spilled several red locks over her shoulders, and his easy smile disappeared when he lowered his mouth to press his tongue into her folds, a flick against her clit.  A breath caught in her chest, but a few more swipes of his tongue against that sensitive nub freed it in the form of a desperate, full-throated moan.  

 

The sound crawled across him and through him like nails on his skin, and he echoed her, burying it in her flesh as he shuddered.   His care in stretching her persisted until she was thrusting against his hand, and he responded with quicker strokes.  The chorus of breaths and moans that left her washed over him both like fire and ice water, and he withdrew his tongue from her for the barest moment to say, “Tell me what you want.”  Her expression when she lifted her head was an exquisite mix of pleasure and incredulity, as if he'd just asked her to sing the Chant of Light backward.   When she offered nothing but panting breaths, he fell into her again, twisting his wrist as he flattened his tongue between her lips.  He heard a clipped huff of breath and a deep whine before the faintest word ever spoken tickled his ears.  “ _ More, _ ” it said, and without looking up, he commanded her:  “Louder.”  There was another groan, and she lifted her hips against his mouth.   

 

He curled his tongue on her clit, a brush of his teeth, before he set his lips on her and sucked as he pumped his fingers steadily in and out.  She let loose nothing short of a full-on incoherent cry, followed by his name, and an ardent command of her own.  “ _ Fuck _ ...more!”  Her ardor shot straight down his spine, and obediently, he added a third finger.  A guttural moan tumbled from her lips in the same instance as she tangled her fingers in his hair.  Between the sounds she made, the stinging in his scalp from her grip, and the near frantic pumping of her hips, he nearly lost control of himself.  Rutting into the mattress, he sealed his lips on her clit and stroked with his tongue as she ground herself down on his fingers.  Her panting breaths were colored with small, desperate sounds, and he thought less of the necessity of breath as she began to tighten on his fingers, walls quivering as her voice rose steadily higher.  Within her, he curled his fingers into that spot and there was one pristine moment of silence and stillness before she screamed his name and bucked wildly against his mouth.  

 

He wrapped both arms beneath and around her thighs and held her steady beneath him as he drank her ecstasy.  Every pulse of her peak brought more of her to his tongue, and he led her through, lapping at and into her until she dissolved into quivering flesh under his mouth.  Only then did he lift his head, his mouth, nose, and chin coated with her slick.  Still wild-eyed, she turned her gaze down the length of her body to him, let loose a shuddering sign, and collapsed back against the pillows.  The grin of satisfaction on his face was unavoidable, and he took advantage of the lull to ease his way up her body.  He paused at all of the important landmarks:  the dip in her pelvis, her navel, and the plane of her stomach.   Each he lavished with attention, suckling kisses, aimless patterns drawn by his tongue as he made his way upward.  When his lower torso was in the cradle of her thighs, his head fell and he drug the tip of his nose through the valley between her breasts.   A short hum rose from her chest, and he leaned his weight onto one hand so that he could let the other crawl up her ribcage to cup her breast from beneath.

 

While her fingers raked his hair from his brow, he languidly strummed across her nipple with his tongue, teasing the bud stiff before his mouth descended.  Electricity webbed across his scalp and down his spine when her gentle fingers turned to nails in his hair, cradling the crown of his head, and the rock of his hips was automatic.  Achingly hard, the rise brushed the head of his cock against her skin, her warmth, a teasing caress of his body to hers.  It pulled his voice from deep in his chest, a heavy rumble as he rocked again, torturing both her and himself as his attentions became more fervent.  A scrape of his teeth across her nipple had her shuddering against him, mewls and tiny gasps heralding the journey of his lips to the other breast.  He nosed beneath, kissing the underside before his tongue traced the curve, and his hand gripped her, lifting her for his mouth to feast.  

 

The combination of his rutting against her and his mouth brought his name to her lips and her other hand to his hair, and she tugged.  His groan was the mark of his acquiescence, and he raised his head to level the heat of his gaze on her.  He found her no less wanton, her writhing beneath him sparking something just this side of feral within him.  It took only a few inches more to bring his chest to hers, to find her knees framing his hips, and his length tucked between them against her core.  Her eyes fluttered and she gave a hitching gasp as he lowered his hips to hers, letting her feel his measure hot on her skin.  His own breath came at an uneven cadence, and when her hands slithered from his hair to hold his face, he inhaled, deep and shuddering.  Forced to focused tightly for a moment, he took her in:  hair beautifully disheveled, pupils so wide, lips and cheeks flushed.  Her thumbs caught on the stubble covering his cheeks, and her eyes fell to watch one smooth across his parted lips before she leaned up and lapped with the tip of her tongue between them.  

 

The moan passed from his mouth to hers was muted when he claimed her lips with deliberation, a kiss that built to its depth and, for its tenderness, was no less consuming in the heat it generated between them.  He felt as much as heard her quiet whimpers on his tongue, and when they separated and found the other’s eyes, it was apparent that there were no further words that needed to be spoken.  With the faintest of smiles, he pulled one of her hands from its place against his cheek and pressed a kiss on her knuckles before turning it to lay against the bed to the side of her head.  As he settled his weight onto his elbow, he slid his hand against hers, and she met him halfway, immediately threading her fingers into his.  Then, she graced him with a smile unlike any he’d ever seen; there were a thousand things in it, pledges made and secrets shared, an intimacy and love that he’d feared for so long, wished for, but never thought to have.  He welcomed it now as land parched by drought celebrated the rain.  

 

For the barest moment, his eyes departed from hers.  They followed the path of his fingers as they brushed the fallen locks of hair from her brow, skipped across her jawline, and caressed the swell of her breast before between sliding between their bodies.  She was trembling as his fingers grazed the inside of her thigh and swept upward, finding her wet and so very ready.  As he set himself against her entrance, he felt her breath skip in her chest, and his eyes rose again to hers.  Quick breaths passed her parted lips, and her eyes settled unerringly on his as she squeezed his hand and nudged her hips against his.  At the motion, the tip of his cock just did breach her, stealing his resolve along with a moan, and he pressed into her with a shallow thrust.  She made little sound, a fractured gasp, and he felt her breath on his cheek as he studied her face for any sign that he should stop.  Though there was none, he waited for her to rise against him before he pulled the short distance out and eased in again a little further.

 

It was he who broke the silence first, a short, almost pained moan escaping his lips.  This pace was the sweetest sort of torture.  She rose to catch his bottom lip between hers as she clutched at his shoulder, fingers steepling, before she caught him off-guard with a forceful thrust of her hips against him.  They moaned in unison as he fell deeper into her, her fingers squeezing his as he fought past the pleasured fuzz of his vision focus on her face.  Her expression was intense, determined, and the corners of her mouth had lifted in something like wonderment.  He flashed his own brief smile and rocked into her again.  She met him, a spark of pain coloring the tail of her moan.  He began to freeze, but her head gave a subtle shake even as she tightened her arm over his shoulder and bucked against into him.  His body responded of its own accord, meeting her thrust, and he found himself lost in the sound of his voice and hers as he was fully seated inside.  

 

Around him, she tensed, he sat perfectly still, and she pulled him closer with her arm threaded around his neck.  Nose to nose, breaths mingled, quick and shallow, she leaned the short distance up to kiss him.  He melted against her lips, against her, and the rest came as naturally as anything ever had.  When she next rose to him, he fell into her, a pattern they repeated until they found their rhythm and became a seamless undulation of one body into another.  As their pace increased, he smoothed a hand beneath her thigh, lifting her leg to hook over his hip, and she needed no encouragement to wrap the other around him as well,  The tilt it created in her body ripped a strangled cry from him as he fell deeper into her, and he nestled his face into the hollow of her shoulder.  Her own voice vibrated against his lips as he sucked at her skin, her pulse, the taste of her heartbeat, the salt of her sweat making a ravenous man of him.  

 

He would take everything she would give:  every breath fractured by pleasure, every moan in the shape of his name, each scratch her nails etched into his back as he bared his teeth on her throat.  As much as she clung to him, he clung to her, raising their joined hand over her head, pinning it to the mattress as he gripped her shoulder with his arm wrapped beneath her.  Pulling himself into her, her cries dissolves into wordless moans, and he panted breathless praises against her ear as the tightness low in his body began to sink lower.  Rising onto his elbow, he changed the cant of his hips slightly to angle every thrust.  The quality of her voice changed, and her eyes flared wider as he gazed down at her, each stroke finding that hidden spot that made her back bow from the bed.  They both began to chant little blasphemies to the Maker when her body began to tighten on his cock, and she clung to his hand fiercely as she tried to tug him down to her.  “ _ Kiss me _ , Cullen.   _ Please _ ,” she pleaded as tremors broke at her very core and a choked silence stole her voice.  He could do nothing other than what she asked, and so overtook her mouth with his, the embrace immediately deep and impassioned.  

 

She came unbound around him, clenching and nearly drowning out his own pleasured moans with shouts that were given to his lips.  He consumed them and her, fighting his own climax to drive her through hers.  It was a valiant effort, and he followed quickly after, his lower body drawing tight as the first pulses of his orgasm shook him.  The force of it took him aback and made his pace irregular, though what had been short, fast thrusts became slower and deeper as he tore his mouth from hers to give voice to his pleasure.  Within the circle of her legs, he was held tightly, rocked as he spilled into her with each convulsive wave that lowered his forehead to her shoulder.  His cries became moans and those in turn became breaths he heaved out against her skin as his weight finally sagged onto his elbows.  He was still moving shallowly within her when she folded one arm around him, the other hand still above her head with their fingers meshed, and set her lips against his ear, whispering a breathless “I love you.”  He didn’t doubt she could feel his smile on her skin, and he languidly trailed kisses along her neck so that he could press his mouth to her ear.  “And, I love you,” he offered her in return, happy to give her all he had:  his heart, his body, and his soul.

 


End file.
